Leaves From The Vine
by CrazyGleek97
Summary: He was gone. His brave, witty, mean, beautiful, lost, misunderstood, youngest boy, had died in the field. Maybe he did good. Maybe he did help. Maybe his son had finally known who he was. But there was no way to be sure now, because Bruce Wayne had lost his son, without knowing exactly what was, and what could've been.


**Song: Leaves from the vine- Avatar: The Last Airbender, Extended Version.**

A boy. A Young boy. A child. _His _child. Taken away from him on the field he knows isn't, and will never be for children.

* * *

_Leaves from the vine, falling so slow. Like fragile, tiny shells, drifting in the foam._

* * *

But Damian had always been on the field, though he had spent most of his years fighting on the other side of the war. A boy. A young boy. A child. Trained to kill by his own mother.

Was he trying to fix him? He knew was trying to make the boy realize what those skills could be used for.

"_Your job is to be a father, Master Bruce, not a mechanic." _That's what Alfred had told him when he mentioned it.

No. He wasn't intending to fix _anything. _Damian was not a machine. He was a boy. But he was trying to change what the boy believed was right, what he seemed to thing was ok. And he was skilled, he was talented, he had the potential to be a true _hero_. He wasn't trying to fix his son, he was trying to _save_ him.

* * *

_Little soldier boy, come marching home. Brave soldier boy, comes marching home._

* * *

"_I want to be like you. I've always wanted to be like you…" _Bruce could feel the tears streaming down his face as he remembered those words. "_But sometimes I don't know what I am…" _

A boy. A young boy. A child. That's what he is-_was._

"_Or even who I am." _Damian Wayne, son of Bruce Wayne. _His child._ That's who he was.

* * *

_Those leaves did grow, from branches overgrown._

* * *

He didn't know when his body started to shake. He didn't realize the moment he started to sob. He felt as the air wasn't filling his lungs, and his chest was so tight it made his heart _hurt._ He cried louder, though his body was emotionally exhausted, and the headache he felt was nothing compared to the mourning of his heart.

"Damian." He moaned in sorrow, calling the name of the one person he wished to hold in his arms again. "Son." Eventually, the tears stopped, almost as if he had ran out of them. His eyes were completely dry, but the sobs would not stop.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice sounded too broken, and the lump on his throat was making it too hard to speak. Should he scream?

"I'm so sorry." He simply whispered.

* * *

_Drifting slowly down, resting in the loam._

* * *

He sniffed a few times and buried his head in his hands. His studio was too uncomfortable and his body needed his bed, but his mind dreaded to sleep. After a few minutes he found the will to stand up from his chair, but instead of going to his bedroom, he walked straight to Jason's old room. He opened the door quietly, and carefully made his way towards the younger man's bed. He kneeled in front of him and simply looked at him in silence, and though he was sleeping, no peace was reflected on his features.

There, in front of him was the first son he had lost. The first partner he had failed. He had mourned for him too, he had cried and sobbed and screamed and he even hit Richard in a fit of frustration, rage, and guilt. But it was different now. It was so different. Because Damian had been his lost little boy, grown in a dangerous and destructive environment, deprived of any innocence. And still, he was just a child craving for his father's approval. His own flesh and blood raised in hell.

* * *

_Little soldier boy taken from home, forced to fight a war that's not his own._

* * *

He was just a boy. A young boy. A child. _His _child.

He stayed there for a whole hour, thinking. He had failed Jason. He had been too late. He hadn't _saved_ him in time.

"_Tell me how to get my son back." _But he has his second chance now, and so did Jason. They could fix what had been broken.

But with Damian he couldn't.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep crouched down on the floor next to Jason's bed.

He finally decided to go to his room. He kicked out his shoes and didn't bother to change out of his clothes before lying down. He felt too tired.

He rolled over and looked at his bedside table. There were several pictures of his family standing there, but the one that caught his attention the most was one of Dick and Damian. His eldest was on one knee, with a big grin on his face and a hand placed on a serious looking Damian.

* * *

_Leaves from the vine, falling so slow._

* * *

He grabbed the picture and held it to his chest, his eyes were burning again.

Damian had been loved more than he could have imagined by this family, even from Tim and Jason. It only took one moment to see them crying for their brother to know they had cared deeply for him. And it broke his heart to know that the boy simply hadn't known exactly how to handle that, and now he never would. Thick tears streamed down his face once again and he shook his head.

* * *

_Like tiny, fragile shells drifting in the foam._

* * *

And had they told him anyway? Had _he _told his child just how much he meant to him? He knew he did, but it didn't feel like he had said enough. And it wasn't because he didn't want to. He just thought he had to give it a little _time. _And then time came and slapped him on the face. Give it a little time? Now he only felt he had been _losing _all those chances to tell Damian he everything he felt, even if the boy didn't say it back, because he didn't now _how. _

Because he didn't have _enough time _to know how_._

He sobbed and buried his face on the pillows, picture still held tightly against his chest.

"_I've let you down…" _

"No, God no…" He cried into his pillow.

"_Damian, I'm proud of you."_

* * *

_Little soldier boy says "Carry me home."_

* * *

"Please." What was he begging for? Was he asking for his son to be back? Was he asking for the pain to stop? For it all to be a dream? But isn't this a nightmare?

He wailed louder into the pillow, losing his grip on the picture and instead holding to the soft material for dear life. The house was too dark, his bed was too big, and the room was too lonely. He felt small and weak, and _exhausted. _He wanted to close his eyes and never open them again, but he feared the demons that would haunt him as soon as he fell asleep.

Eventually his sobs subsided, until they were nothing but shaky breaths. His grip on the pillow loosened, and his eyes were stinging.

"_Life is a battlefield, Father. Good people face horrible fates…"_

"You were good." He whispered. "You did good, my boy."

He had only been a boy. A young boy. A child.

_His_ child.

Now he was gone. His brave, witty, mean, beautiful, lost, misunderstood, _youngest _boy, had died in the field, like the great hero he had been.

"_Mother might have given me life, but you taught me how to live."_

Maybe he did good. Maybe he did help. Maybe his son had finally known what he was, and more importantly _who_ he was.

"_Love and respect.  
__Your son.__  
Damian."_

"_You are my son." _

"You were my boy."

Maybe he had known. But there was no way to be sure now, because Bruce Wayne had lost his son, without knowing exactly what was, and what could've been.

* * *

_A brave soldier boy, is carried home._


End file.
